#michael bluth drabble

[asphaltsugar]

michael bluth x reader

extras: suggestive but more so in reader’s thoughts than any actions; pet names ‘sweetheart’ & ‘doll’; no pronouns or use of y/n; just something short bc he’s been plaguing my mind since i started watching arrested development a few days ago

becoming an assistant to kitty consisted of simple—boring, but you wouldn’t admit that—busy work: organizing papers from the copy room, taking calls when she (frequently) left, buying ink or staples whenever there was word of the absence of either, discreetly eyeing the head of the company whenever he passed with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to the bones of his elbows; why else would his office be behind the secretary’s desk?

she told you michael asked one morning if you could bring the copies to his office directly, rather than handing them off to her to do so; she grumbled something about him not trusting her—whether it was a quote or simply her irritability bleeding into her request, you didn’t pry—with an eye roll and an annoyed tapping of her pen to the desk. you could tell she really did not care—it was less work for her to do, more time to catch the phone if his father called.

you did as you were asked. you made the turn into his office rather than the straight path to kitty’s desk, knocking on the already-open door as a greeting along with a brief ‘good morning’ (even though he had echoed the same words when the two of you crossed paths earlier).

his head raised from whatever he was writing in a haste, flipping a page as he sent you a smile.

“you can just leave them right there...” he drawled with a slight raise to his eyebrows, eyeing your respective movement to the corner of his desk. “that’s perfect. thank you, sweetheart.” it was quick, thrown out of his lips with a charming crease underneath his eyes.

you nodded, reminding him with a routine phrase to let you know if he needed anything else. you hoped he didn’t exactly catch the brief glance to his hands atop his desk, baby blue sleeves, of course, rolled to his elbows.

delivering papers to the head of the company, whom they were intended for in the first place, was not unusual, not difficult.

michael was definitely making it so.

no matter if he was bickering with someone on the other line, scoffing at a file and marking another, only meeting eyes with a narrowing of his own if his head was still angled to the work atop his desk, whenever you came in with a new number of papers in hand, he made sure to offer you a smile, fiddle with the folded edges of his shirt around his arms. if there wasn’t anyone in the room or another voice registering through the phone, he would ask how your day was going with a low cadence to his voice, nodding regardless of what you said.

the days were much the same. you handed him copies and files; he muttered ‘thanks, doll’ in a lower octave, a tilt of his head. his actions were becoming less a friendly demeanor and more of an ease into whatever made a heat crawl to the skin of your neck, the shells of your ears, your eyes to wander to the slope of his nose or the way he shifted to spread his legs at his desk chair.

kitty, to no one’s surprise, left early one shift, leaving you to do more work than you knew she even had that day. the office was quiet into the later hours, save for the one sitting in the room behind you muttering under his breath.

you ended the last few minutes in the copy room, already tracking the path to michael’s desk, the elevator, your apartment. the fluorescent lights were a sore that sunk into the blacks of your pupils, and you might as well have kept track of the number they subconsciously flitted to the open door of his office.

but, he wasn’t at his desk. you rifled through the pages to check that you copied the right ones and he stood in the doorway of the copy room after having been looking for you, and you hadn’t noticed him until you were nearly chest to chest.

your apologies blended into one another, his hand already reaching out in belief the papers were to slip out of yours.

before you could ask, the dusty blues of his eyes broke contact to glance at your hands.

“i got ‘em, you can head on home.” his speech was tired, slow, punctuated with a small breath and his hand brushing against your own, gesturing with a wink to the door.

perhaps it was the sleep that strung itself in your figure, or maybe it was a simple itch that needed to be scratched, but you placed a kiss to his cheek as a thank you, not glancing back as you made your way to grab your stuff.

“have a nice night, michael.”

he could call if he needed anything—the almost displeased rasp in the brief apology that met your ear through the phone a few hours later proved your point.

[silksaddle]

Okay okay I was literally just thinking about this today but I remember seeing you cross my dash sometime last summer when I was a wee tumblr babe and thinking you were so cool. You seemed so secure and mature and your blog was so clean and you treated everyone so kindly. Plus, as a much more established author than I was at the time, I used to devour your fics like a gremlin and try to learn everything I could from you. I still devour your fics like a gremlin and learn all I can, and I’m so happy to say that I’m not scared of you anymore hahahaahsh. You are just as breathtaking, sensitive, kind, and smart as the first day I met you (and I’m just as starstruck that now you’re my friend). I love you ma lune!

cris once again you BLOW MY IMPORTANCE OUT OF PROPORTION.

i have no idea why i had gotten all that attention for writing for obi-wan????

1) i couldn't write more than 300 words for a prompt, and even that was pushing it

2) didn't even know "showing vs. telling" back then

3) CRINGE CENTRAL

4) i think it was just the fact that i would bang out requests and anons would come flocking to have me write them something--

5) very much the opposite of mature and secure....... WHERE ARE YOUR GLASSES

6) also a wee tumblr babe. also very terrified. tf were taglists? tf is a comment reblog? didn't even know people did that kinda thing

i thought YOU were way more established than me!!! i will always remember meeting you through writing a baker obi-wan drabble, and then reconnecting through a discord chat that i was added into. which lead to us sharing thoughts and THOTS on the daily and now you know everything there is to possibly know about me.

of course, first impression: WOW. this person is so cool, so vibrant, so lovely, i wish i could be more like them.

fun fact: before we were proper mutuals i would always see pedro stuff that you reblogged and THAT is what made me start watching narcos.... like two weeks before we started talking..... so basically i have you to thank for getting back into writing and for all the amazing things that have happened since, aka becoming your friend :")

i kinda said this before but whenever you compliment me i still go all ooey gooey and suspect that other people must be like *michael bluth "her?" gif*

i am just a little pebble compared to your shiny crystal status. spare talent? i love you more than anything and will continue to eat up everything you do. i am your stan, your lover, your life partner whether you like it or not!!!

[ao3feed-arresteddevelopment]

Comfort & Support

by Anonymous

Lucille is there for Michael after the death of his wife

Words: 180, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Arrested Development

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Lucille Bluth, Michael Bluth

Relationships: Lucille Bluth & Michael Bluth

Additional Tags: Drabble, Mother-Son Relationship

from AO3 works tagged 'Arrested Development' https://ift.tt/ORWZu8K via IFTTT

[asphaltsugar]

suggestive! ━━━ MICHAEL BLUTH and his voice

it was a confession he would certainly revel in, such a mundanity to his person that was a contrary if you were asked. you could keep it as a guilty pleasure of sorts for just a while longer.

at your insistence he not hang up, his eyes widened ever so slightly, darting to the watch at his wrist.

“it’s... nearly midnight.”

you sighed through a smile. “do you have a bedtime?” a bite, knowing he would reply with a dry laugh and something else to say—and that was all you wanted of him.

and he did just that, breathed a laugh. agreed with an ‘alright’ muttered, barely audible with how low his cadence dipped and the albeit shitty connection it traveled through.

you weren’t exactly sure how long the two of you spoke. you had him relay his shift that morning, anything that occurred at the model home, the banana stand, told him he could tell you whatever he wanted with a dreamy sigh.

he figured it was a joke, the late hour finding its way onto your tongue. but the thought passed in your mind that he must know, what with the hums and lows he would mutter past his lips, the most boring of talk given in a lure. there wasn’t any effort, any entendre in his delivery; just a man whose need for sleep was being betrayed—to your almost greedy satisfaction—by his speech.

at one point something akin to a whine crossed his lips with his words. a grin nearly spread on your cheeks; a defeated laugh from him soon followed.

“i don’t have anything else to tell you, sweetheart. ‘m afraid i’ll bore you to death.”

you hummed, palm against your cheek. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

a similar sound, a delicate rumble from his throat. “good night,” he whispered.

something so inconspicuous garnered such a response, and he would be sure to remind you to the shell of your ear and a hand dragging up your hip.

[asphaltsugar]

michael bluth x reader

extras: drinking; set in this universe but can be read as a stand alone! no use of y/n; again something short and sweet

seeing everyone having a good time was definitely foreign amongst the monotonous manner of the place, but it made for a nice change; a celebration of any kind was bound to bring cheer even to the dullest of environments.

michael strode with a humorous, clumsy tie to his limbs—so unlike his usual set steps, his lazy smile almost contagious. you’re not exactly sure how much he had had to drink throughout the night, but you figured he was one who needed to let loose, take his mind off deadlines and the accompanying stress. he must not have known who planned the party in the first place, either, for he had stepped out of the elevator with an irritation set in his eyes, which quickly shifted from confusion to surrender.

you stood, back against the wall and drink in hand, eyeing your new coworkers as they shared jokes and giggly conversation thanks to the buzz in their blood and heady bliss in their minds. you hadn’t been there long, maybe only a few weeks, yet you guessed company parties weren’t all that common what with the manner at which they seemed to take advantage of the drinks and light snacks—such a crowd seemed out of place in their pressed business attire.

you hadn’t heard michael come up at your side—alcohol seemed to make him light in his feet.

he cleared his throat before he spoke, raising his glass to both yourself and everyone in front of you. he mumbled a ‘cheers’ under his breath, clinking your glasses together. you echoed his word with a smile, mimicking his actions and taking a sip—his eyes were lidded as they didn’t stray from your own over the rim. from this close you could spot the freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose, underneath the creases of his eyes.

you caught the quick drag of his eyes down your figure. “that color looks nice on you,” he said, shifting so he too stood with his back against the wall, one hand in his pocket.

“thanks.” you weren’t wearing anything you hadn’t come into the office in before, yet you told yourself to keep the acknowledgement in the back of your mind when deciding what to wear the next morning.

he diverted his attention back to the crowd; you took the time to see what he was wearing. his tie had since been loosened with haste, suit jacket draped over the chair in his office, sleeves rolled to show hair lining the cords of his arms.

your hands moved on their on accord, following a want guided by the drink in your limbs. the glass was set atop a table nearby, it being replaced with the fabric of his collar. it was turned upward, wrinkled.

michael didn’t move as your hands smoothed over the light purple of his dress shirt, skin of your fingers just brushing along his jaw, the neckline of his undershirt. his lips upturned at the corners.

“y’could’ve just asked if y’wanted to touch me,” he hummed, sounding almost pleased.

a scoff left your lips. “i want to make you more presentable. you are the head of the company, aren’t you?”

his voice was low as he spoke, an attempt to get a heat to flush your cheeks. “who wouldn’t want to be head of a company with a pretty secretary?”

you rolled your eyes, muttering about what a cliché his words insisted of.

“assistant secretary.” your hands smoothed over his shoulders, just as quickly returning to grab your drink. you could’ve sworn he leaned over ever so slightly to chase your touch.

he shrugged, taking a sip of his own. “kitty’s practically fired, anyway.”

“is this your way of telling me i’m being promoted?” you mocked the tone on his tongue moments before, something like a lure to the ears.

“i don’t hear you complaining,” he winked, though both eyes blinked, slow, tipsy.

you raised a hand in faux defense, beginning to walk over to the snack table, whispering so only he could hear as you stepped away from his side. “who wouldn’t want to be the secretary to the handsome head of the company?”

[asphaltsugar]

thinking about how michael bluth would be caught off guard with the causal intimacy of undressing one another.

maybe he’d prod a gentle knock at your door, the two of you having agreed on dinner together. the sound would be enveloped by the later hours of the night, the office having kept him for a little while longer than he anticipated; nonetheless he called, apologized, understood if you wanted to postpone.

and yet you denied, assuring him it was alright; ‘i have leftovers in the fridge.’

you’d open the door with a soft welcome from your lips, his spilling low apologies. the stream would be cut with your own, a quick kiss.

his steps would be slow, guided by a want to let his figure rest by yours, his jacket already slung over his forearm.

the door would click in place, leaving you to stand in the quiet of your home, the unperturbed watch from the sun’s counterpart. a beat, and your hands would go from your sides to his collarbones, gauging his response before you continued. you’d gently loosen the patterned knot at his neck, tucking it underneath your arm once it was slid from the collar; undo the buttons of his dress shirt. tell him he should lay down, you’ll bring him a drink. he’d watch with tired eyes, lids succumbing to the hour. your hands not moving in a haste, there was no rush, no deadline, no careless motive in the movement. he’d only focus on your touch, one he hadn’t asked for and yet found himself wanting.

it was easy to spot the way his body would tense enough to be noticed by a glance, Adam’s apple taught on his neck a fruitless attempt to supply words to sit on his tongue. he wasn’t one to relax, to be the one offered to.

but he did. he’d say something with a dry laugh about not being little, he could handle it—to which you’d roll your eyes and remind him he’s said so too many times in his life.

you’d guide him to your living room, push the sleeves of his dress shirt down, down the length of his arms until they reached his wrists, tug them off and lay the garment over the back of your couch.

he’d sit with a sigh, a groan, something that simply meant he was tired. you’d stand behind him, about to make the few steps to the kitchen.

a ‘thank you’ would leave his lips, soon turning upward at your own finding brief solace on his cheeks, his jaw—he’d turn to catch them minutely with a smile.

you’d joke about him not having to sleep on the couch, that it looked as though he would do so the second you’d turn your head around.

with his head tilted along the top of the couch and eyes fluttered shut, he’d mutter something about not caring as long as you slept next to him.

[asphaltsugar]

MICHAEL BLUTH moved in next door and no one paid any notice; you hadn’t even known someone rented the space at the end of the hall.

he came in on a mundane morning, barely anything tucked under his arms save for a suitcase in his hand. instead of making conversation, introducing yourself with a name to your face, you heard of his demeanor through gossip as the days passed, word of mouth from the older women when you would leave to run errands. they liked his suits, his hair left styled from sleep made him look all the more handsome, the ‘good mornings’s drawn in his tired tone were something they admitted they wouldn’t mind hearing more often, perhaps even a bit closer.

it was around a week after his moving in. you were getting your mail, his box four doors to your right. he cleared his throat; you lifted your head from where you picked through the envelopes in your hands, not even having noticed he stood there. he wasn’t wearing a suit, so you figured it was the basic white t-shirt, much more casual than what the ladies spoke of swooning over.

“i don’t think we’ve met yet.” he gave you a pursed smile. “michael.” he reached over to shake your hand; you reciprocated. he made small talk, added that he was still new to the building, said it was nice to meet you.

in the days following, there was a gnawing awareness that turned your head to the end of the hall every time you stepped out in the morning, came back by mid-afternoon, rare nights out hoping he would be by his door. maybe it was something to do with the women’s words, how charmed they seemed to be by him. a wonder churned, a curious thing, as to how such a claim could attach itself to someone so... simple, a distance from how they fawned.

you would meet by the front door at times. he would give you a smile, a greeting to match the sun’s time outside the windows, hold the door open for you. his voice was smooth when you walked past, that much you could agree; it made you want to stop and speak to him for a little more.

he usually beat you to the urge. it was as if he knew of your skepticism, wanting to prove himself to the words spinning their own image whether he knew of them or not.

it would be at the mail slots, or just briefly while walking to your shared floor. quips, a dry laugh punctuating the ends. he would ask about any hidden tricks to stop the leaking of his kitchen faucet, if the heating and cooling were always barely distinguishable from one another—on one of the rare nights if you were going to the jazz hour advertised by the bar a few blocks down, and would you mind if the two of you walked the way together?

[asphaltsugar]

───────────────── click here for details on what i write! a lot of my works are inspired by other media, so i do recommend (even if just briefly) checking out whatever served as the muse whenever mentioned. enjoy! x

&&. [ smutty | ꩜ suggestive | 𝜗 ]

❛ MISC.

FRED WEASLEY

DRABBLES

my type(o negative)

summerboy [ 𝜗 ]

THOUGHTS

reader with glasses [ 𝜗 ]

thriller

LOGAN HOWLETT

FICS

somewhere south with fruits sweeter [ ꩜ ]

THOUGHTS

taking a picture of the wolverine

so press record, i’ll let you film me. . . [ ꩜ ]

line dancing [ 𝜗 ]

GABRIEL VAN HELSING

DRABBLES

show me your teeth

MICHAEL BLUTH

THOUGHTS

being kitty’s assistant [ 𝜗 ]

⤷ company party

undressing

michael’s voice [ 𝜗 ]

next door neighbor!au

in the morning

DARYL DIXON

THOUGHTS

mechanic!daryl | two.

blacksmith!daryl

⤷ act of service

⤷ reassurance [ ꩜ ]

TOMMY SLATER

DRABBLES

la dolly vita (cool as ice cream)

THOUGHTS

at the lake

college!tommy

⤷ thigh riding [ ꩜ ]

❛ A LEAGUE OF THEIR OWN, 1992 & 2022

LUPE GARCÍA

(tbd.)

───────────────── thank you!

[asphaltsugar]

there will be mature themes on this blog in terms of what i reblog and write! please be mindful of that if you are a minor—while i cannot control what you read, i do ask that you at least be respectful and do not interact with those posts.

📭 / CURRENTLY WRITING FOR,

fred weasley michael bluth from arrested development tommy slater from fear street a league of their own (1992 and 2022)

📬 / FOR ANY REQUESTS,

⋆ fluff and suggestive/smutty themes are fine. i am not comfortable with writing full smut—for me, this means p in v, i just don’t like writing it right now—or dark content of any kind, so please do not request it! if you’re not sure what counts as what, don’t hesitate to ask me :) please be mindful that i can also decline a request.

&. i am also not the best at writing angst—this is just a personal preference, so i tend not to write it as much—so i can’t guarantee a request of the sort will be my best work.

&. some hard no’s include: pregnancy, stepcest/fauxcest, self harm/eds, degradation of any kind, extreme gore, large age gaps or a very innocent reader . . .

&. i will not make any bots on c.ai, and i ask that you don’t take any character aus and make one yourself. if you want more content of a certain character, just ask me!

⋆ ‘x reader’s only; the reader will have no defining characteristics (hair type, skin color, etc.). i will write for gender neutral and female readers.

&. please only request characters and not the people portraying them.

⋆ drabbles and thoughts are always welcome!

─────────────────────── thank you! :)

[ao3feed-arresteddevelopment]

Sleep

by Anonymous

Michael is tired

Words: 100, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Arrested Development

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Lucille Bluth, Michael Bluth

Relationships: Lucille Bluth & Michael Bluth

Additional Tags: Drabble, Mother-Son Relationship, Fluff

from AO3 works tagged 'Arrested Development' https://ift.tt/UDuGPc0 via IFTTT